


by sun and candle-light

by bickz



Series: OC Kiss Week '19 [1]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Crispin Blackall, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Kissing, Morning Kisses, Morris Haley, Morrígan Le Fay, Multi, OCKissWeek, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Other, Polyamory, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 00:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17908814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bickz/pseuds/bickz
Summary: A little snippet of what it's like to endure Crispin's affections.





	by sun and candle-light

**Author's Note:**

> this is purely self-indulgent trash;;;;
> 
> this fic takes place some time after the campaign this group is a part of (in which they're 13), so they're like in their twenties here probably. i imagine they have like a sorta polyamorous thing with morrigan in the middle -- meaning morris and crispin don't particularly have a romantic relationship, but they're both romantically (consensual ofc) involved with morrigan.
> 
> anyway if you read this im sorry

The sun rises slowly, leisurely, its rays of light peeking over the horizon as if stretching from a long night’s slumber. It takes its time bathing the lands in its golden radiance. The once velvety blue sky catches fire, turns a deep indigo, then violet, then crimson and fuschia, before exploding in a blindingly saturated butterscotch yellow. The veil of night is lifted as the moon gracefully retreats, shadows dwindling into almost nothing. This is a peaceful time, one of harmony and splendour, one of which not many get to enjoy.

From where Crispin Blackall is perched on the balcony, he can easily see the sunrise in its entirety. He’s been up for quite a few hours now -- as is his usual routine -- not doing anything in particular. It’s not that Crispin is a morning person by nature, more that he finds himself unable to sleep for too long, his mind refusing to be so unaware of his surroundings, to be vulnerable to any assailants. Many would call his ailment paranoia, but he just considers it a part of who he is.

From inside, Crispin can hear movement: sheets rustling, soft sleepy sighs, a quiet yawn. He can't help the grin that curls his lips, the aching of his chest, the gentle warmth that spreads through him, not from the heat of the sun, but from the thought of those who dwell within. Without hesitation, Crispin spins himself around and propels himself off of the balcony railing, eagerly bouncing towards the door and inside in only a few steps.

“Morning, luvs!” Crispin chirps brightly, maybe a bit too loud if the groan he receives is any indication. He merely chuckles as he walks further into the large bedroom, stepping over piles of threadbare clothes, around precarious stacks of weathered books, and narrowly avoiding bits of machinery strewn across the floor -- an amalgamation of the room’s current residents.

“Must you be so loud so early in the morning?” a voice responds, raspy with sleep and annoyance. A head of messy black hair rises from the patchwork of blankets on the bed, and after a quick shake, a scarred and freckled face appears, small brows drawn together in a frown.

Another head, this one the colour of flaxseed, gradually rises from the bed, more tentative, clearly less irritated. “G’morning,” he pipes up, punctuating the greeting with a small yawn.

By now Crispin is at the edge of the bed, and without any warning, he climbs on in, quick to crawl up and over the two still sitting nestled under the blankets, seeming to do everything in his power to further rouse them from their sleep. The dark-haired one, Morrígan, grumbles in exasperation, but there’s a grin tugging at the edge of their mouth. Morris, the blonde, gives a small squeak as Crispin plops down upon both of their laps. The wizard’s pale face turns a bright shade of pink at the sudden intimacy, and he tries to hide behind his hands.

“How do you have so much energy?” Morrígan teases, taking a handful of blankets and quickly covering Crispin’s face. They give a small huff of amusement as they begin to smother the artificer, finding little resistance and only a few giggles.

Crispin knows Morrígan doesn’t mean any ill towards him, this is just how the sorcerer expresses their affections. Even after all of these years, after all they’ve been through, this has not changed -- and Crispin wouldn’t want them any other way. He lets Morrígan have their fun, pretending to be defeated beneath the blankets so that he may be freed. But things take a turn, as the sheets are pulled back to reveal Morrígan’s face hovering right over Crispin’s, so close that he can feel the warmth of the sorcerer's exhale. The dark curtain of their hair envelopes the two in shadow, the only light is that of Morrígan's oddly reflective gray eyes, sparkling like moonlight. The artificer sucks in a breath of surprise, taken off-guard by his lover’s sudden boldness and unique beauty.

“Good morning, Cris,” Morrígan whispers before leaning down, closing the distance between them slowly, giving Crispin time to relish this rare moment. Despite the awkward angle of their faces, the sorcerer easily turns their head and presses their mouths together, a soft, fleeting touch of two pairs of chapped, dry lips.

When Morrígan pulls back, all too soon, they look uncharacteristically sheepish, avoiding eye contact as they sit up once more. Crispin can only blink up at the sorcerer as he processes what just happened and tries to come up with a tension-breaking quip. He glances over to find Morris almost completely hidden behind a wall of blankets save for his blown wide green eyes, staring as if he just witnessed a murder. A few beats of silence pass between them before Crispin springs up and nestles into Morrígan’s personal space.

“Nuh-uh-uh! C’mon, luv, you can’t just kiss me, but not Morris,” Crispin scolds playfully, grabbing the sorcerer’s face in his hands. He can feel the flustered heat from Morrígan’s cheeks, and he revels in the endearing look of embarrassment on their face.

Morrígan tries to pull away, feigning anger at Crispin, but when they look over to catch the interested glint in Morris’s eyes, their act falters. The sorcerer sighs in resignation, and Crispin grins wide, letting go of their face, yet not sitting back. No, he wants first-row seats to this wonderful show. He watches, enraptured, as Morrígan turns to face Morris, lifting a hand to easily pull the blankets away from the blonde’s face. There’s a moment of hesitation, of Morrígan staring deep into Morris’s eyes, and Crispin knows that there’s a Message passing between them and godsdamnit if he isn’t curious about what they’re saying.

Without a sound, Morrígan places their palm on Morris’s cheek, the wizard instantly melting into the touch, a small grin lighting up his weary face. They smile at each other a moment longer before Morrígan is leaning forward and capturing Morris’s lips in a brief kiss, just like they had given to the artificer. And it has the exact same effect on Morris, because when they pull away, the wizard leans forward, as if not wanting the contact to end, and his eyes slowly flutter open to fix Morrígan with a wistful stare.  

Morrígan is quick to turn on Crispin, narrowing their eyes at him. “Happy now?” 

Crispin looks at Morris, their eyes meeting for a heartbeat before he's giving Morrígan an impish smirk. “Hm, dunno, luv. I think you ought to give us  _ proper _ good morning kisses,” he muses aloud, his scheming plain as day. “What do you think, Morris?”

The blonde goes stiff, the once pleased curl of his lips instantly disappearing. Morris looks at Crispin and just shakes his head furiously -- he knows better than to poke the bear. Morrígan's wrath is something they're both much too familiar with, and if it can be helped, Morris would much rather not be the subject of such fury, especially for some childish teasing. But, Crispin isn't quite as wise.

“See? He clearly wasn't satisfied with that peck,” the artificer goes on, earning himself an increasingly unimpressed scowl from Morrígan.  _ That's _ the look he adores -- the swirling mess of affection and annoyance that's constantly at war within his lover's intense eyes, the way their mouth turns downwards, yet quivers at the temptation to switch into an amused grin, the slight flush of colour under their freckles. Crispin will never have his fill of it.

“You're a menace, you know that?” the sorcerer sighs, a slight curl of their lips cracking their façade.

Crispin beams back. “Yeah, but I'm  _ you're _ menace, luv.”


End file.
